WotC Side Story: Sins
by NerdTypeZ
Summary: While the digidestined face their own challenges, there are other stories that must be told; stories of oppression, hatred and sin. This is a side-story to my main War of the Crests story.


Hey everyone! And welcome to my side-story: Sins! This story will accompany the main War of the Crests story whenever necessary. I can't guarantee an update to this story whenever there's an update to the main one, simply by the definition of the story. What should be noted is that, for a while anyway, I will not be featuring the known cast in this story. These are new characters with new stories. I don't want to include them in the main line for a number of reasons.

Also, I should note that every chapter of this story will correspond with a chapter in the main story. This is for the purposes of timing, so events don't get clogged. Every accompanying chapter will be noted.

I also can't promise anything concerning length. This chapter is quite short, but others might go on for a while. In general, expect each chapter to be short. It is a side-story.

Other than that, I hope you like it. I sure enjoyed writing it, and I think it'll turn into something special and unique.

* * *

><p>War of the Crests<p>

Side Story: Sins

-The Big Man-

-Accompanying Chapter: Light 5-

The Big Man was powerful. He was tall, strong, ruthless…and powerful. His name wasn't really the Big Man, but like so many gangsters before him, he didn't go by that name any more. To outsiders, he was more image than man. And in keeping with that, he chose not a man's name, but the name of a symbol. Little Jean-Luc—the young Haitian raised in New Orleans by a single voodoo priestess mother and a strong gang culture—was no more.

He hadn't been Jean-Luc since the digital world.

Not since Sorcerymon.

He stared out his floor-to-ceiling bullet-proof windows at the city—the Strip. Tiny ant-people scampered around, running from casino to cab and back to casino. They would spend and spend and spend, and they'd win or lose, and whether the outcome was one or the other, they'd go back to their hotel rooms and fuck like rabbits. And if they didn't have someone to fuck, they'd find someone on the street. Someone to spend more money on. Someone to say "I love you" and "you're amazing" without really meaning it. And then they'd wake up the next morning (or afternoon), drink off their hangover, and do it all again.

Such was the way of Vegas. Winners and losers, a constant flow of cash and chips. And while the Big Man may not have been the King of the Strip, he was definitely in the royal family.

The man sitting in the chair behind him coughed and spit. That man wasn't a member of the family. He didn't even register on their fucking radar. He was a rat—a nuisance that needed to be stepped on and thrown in the trash.

"Mister Kelly," the Big Man said, keeping his voice neutral. The slight French accent still made its way into his speech. "I'm a busy man. I do not have time for you and your _gangsters_ running through my streets." He spat the word "gangsters" like it was unwanted mucous. These barbaric little cretins didn't deserve to call themselves that. In the 1920s and 30s, gangsters were respected. They were smart, organized men that were often content with making money and earning reputation. Death came with the job, but it was secondary to business.

Not this new generation. All they cared about was death. They practically kept score. Drug-dealers and sewer-rats, stealing wallets and killing civilians. That wasn't the way of a true gangster. There was no sophistication in such violence.

"Hey. Nigger, they ain't gonna be your streets too much longer, ya hear me? What, you think you gonna break my hands and send me on my way? Scare us into leaving? It's gonna take a shitload more than a couple old-school mob boss tricks to get rid of the Dogs."

The Big Man turned around and blinked at Mister Kelly. He was young, black and stupid. What was this generation's fascination with the word 'nigger,' anyway?

"Mister Kelly, you call me a 'nigger.' Do you know where the word originated?"

The man spat at him. The spittle hit the Big Man's suit. He looked at it with indifference. He had a hundred more just like it.

"It's a bastardized version of the term 'negro,' a term used to denote black men from white back in the days of American slavery."

"Mother fucker, I know where it came from!" Mister Kelly shouted at the Big Man. One of the two large men standing beside his chair—Russians immigrated here specifically for this sort of thing; ex-spetsnaz, the Big Man thought—threw his fist across his jaw. The hit silenced him.

"Do not interrupt," the Russian demanded.

"The term 'negro' itself was adapted, you know, into English. In Spanish, it's literally the color black. Slave masters used 'nigger' as a derogatory term—in order to show power and ownership over their slaves. My great grandfather was one such slave. His master attempted to show power, to prove his ownership. Do you know what my great grandfather did?"

Mister Kelly remained silent.

"He took a knife from his master's kitchen and carved out the man's heart with it. Following that, he raped the man's wife and stabbed her to death. His master's children, he drowned in the rain barrel outside. He then took all the slaves on that plantation and fled South. He killed twenty more people himself before finally arriving in Haiti. There, he bore my grandfather, who bore my mother, who bore me. And now I am back in Nevada, where my great grandfather became a murderer.

"And do you know what I do here?"

Mister Kelly had sweat on his brow.

"I don't kill people. You see, I don't have to kill people. I have men and women who kill people for me. I have people who rape their wives. I have people who drown their children."

The Big Man now stood over Mister Kelly, staring down at him: a pathetic, stupid little man in a chair.

"I have the power now. I'm the master."

"Fuck you!" Mister Kelly stood up, a prison-shiv in one hand, and drove it toward the Big Man's throat.

The Big Man didn't flinch away.

Mister Kelly's hand literally froze in place, ice crystals forming on the makeshift knife and spreading along his fingers, down his arm, and over his shoulder. He stumbled back into the chair.

"What the fuck? What the hell are—stop it! Fucking knock it off, man!" The crystals crawled up his neck and down his chest.

"Stop it! Stop! I don't—" the crystals covered his jaw and crawled into his mouth, turning whatever he didn't want into a gurgling scream. Soon enough, Mister Kelly was completely coated in a thick, crystalline sheet of ice, his eyes still wide in fear.

One of the Russian guards shifted a bit, uncomfortable at the sight of the spell. He'd seen similar work before, but this one was particularly creative.

"Send him back to his Dogs of War. We'll let them make the next move," he said. The Russians nodded and took Mister Kelly's body out of the room, chair and all. The Big Man adjusted his tie as they left, tightening it a bit before turning to his desk.

Like water flowing off a body, a humanoid shape formed on the desk. He was small, maybe four-and-a-half feet tall, and wore a white, pointed hat, like that of an Arthurian wizard. Around his shoulders, he wore a white cape with a collar that covered the lower half of his face. His clothes were otherwise a faint blue, but for his boots and gloves, which were a stark, leathery brown in comparison. A staff about his height, topped with a blue, metallic snow flake rested in one hand.

"That was close," the digimon said.

"Yes, it was. You caught him in time, though."

The digimon was Sorcerymon. They'd met in the digital world years ago, when the Big Man had been sent there. Together, they built what could vaguely be considered a small empire equivalent to what he had here on the Strip.

"You really shouldn't get so close," Sorcerymon chastised. "What do you plan to do about his gang?"

"If they retaliate, I think I'll introduce them to Cerberumon."

"Poetic," Sorcerymon smiled. Even without seeing it, the Big Man always knew when he was smiling.

He joined in the smile, "I expect them to retaliate."

A knock came to the door. The Big Man turned his head toward the noise and Sorcerymon once more cloaked himself.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A visitor, Big Man. Says he has an appointment," came the voice outside. Another big body guard.

The Big Man checked his watch, a Rolex. Five PM. Indeed, he did have an appointment, "Send him in."

The door opened and a tall, thin white man strode inside. He wore tight, black leather pants, a dark button-up shirt, and a black leather jacket over that. Everything was decorated with false diamonds that glittered in the light, and his brown hair stuck up in the air thanks to the gravity-defying effects of gel. Sunglasses covered his eyes, and he wore a strange, almost-diamond shaped gold pendant around his neck. The pendant possessed some sort of glass window which held a red crest of some kind. He couldn't quite see the design, but didn't care much either way.

"Mister Nox," the Big Man said. "You told my secretary that you had a proposition. You've got ten minutes."

"Right then," Nox said, a heavy English accent twisting his words. "I won't take up too much of your time. Got lots of places to be after all. Heading east towards New York next. You ever been to New York? Everyone says it's tits. I hope so, considering how much trouble I'm 'spected to go through, I'd like to get some kind of holiday out of this." Every word out of the man's mouth was accompanied with a gesture.

"I didn't invite you into my office to listen to your vacation plans, Mister Nox," The Big Man said, already annoyed with the man.

"Right you are. Busy man. Big Man, they call you. Good name. Suits you. Suggests a kind of hunger, don't you think? A craving for more. Big, but hoping to get bigger," Nox began to ramble.

"Mister Nox! Please get to the point, or I'll have you escorted out."

"I'm getting to it. Just hold on a tic, mate. Ever heard of a sales pitch? No patience in you 'mericans. _Anyway_, as I was saying. You're the kind of man who's never quite satisfied, am I right?"

The Big Man didn't reply.

"Exactly. You're always looking for the next leg up. You're looking to expand your horizons, meet new people, and crush 'em under your boot-heels. You want to be the master, am I right? Make them the slaves."

The Big Man shifted his stance, trying not to give away any surprise. Had he heard the conversation with Kelly?

"You want the power, is all I'm saying. Well, believe me when I say that what I'm offering should more than satisfy that hunger, mate. Of course, what I'm offering, it's not free. Nothing's free anymore, am I right?"

"What exactly are you offering?" The Big Man asked, his eyes narrow.

"Power, mate. More power than you've ever known. And all I ask for in return is a little compensation."

"Money," The Big Man stated.

"No, mate. Money's a thing o' the past. These days, it's all about service. I just need you to provide a small service to me. Access to a particular business you've been running. In a world that may or may not be digital."

This time, the Big Man couldn't hold back the surprise. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped a bit, and his muscles stiffened up, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Lumis Nox, mate. I didn't lie about my name. Now, if you want to know how I know about the digital world, then that's a whole new cup o' tea. I guess it'd be the same reason you know about it," he reached into his jacket and removed a small, steel blue watch-like device. The Big Man knew that device all too well.

"A digivice," he said.

"He follows. Oh, goody. Listen. I work for a digimon who would like to use your services. Specifically, he'd like to borrow a few of the nastier brutes you've got in your employ. In return, he offers you this," Nox reached back into the jacket and pulled out a necklace with a pendant near-identical to his own, though the crest in the center was a deep violet color.

The Big Man regained his composure and stood tall, "And what's that?"

"Bloody hell. Haven't you been listening? Power, mate. All-consuming, all-encompassing. The good kind. The kind that'll do more than just put your enemies beneath your boots. This is the kind of power that'll crush 'em for you," he tossed the pendant to the Big Man. He caught it, and immediately fell to his knees.

He had to gasp at the rush. What was this? The feeling was…orgasmic. He felt like he could move mountains. He stared down at the crest; it had an engraving, a symbol that looked a bit like a Mayan temple.

"Nice, isn't it? That crest for use of your pool o' nasties in the digital world. Deal?"

"Deal," the Big Man whispered. Anything to keep this thing in his possession. All the power he knew in his life, from the command he held in the digital world to his position here in Vegas; none of it held a candle to this little thing. This tiny object. He drank in the power, and knew then that he'd always want it, always yearn for it, even while it was in his possession.

But he'd give anything just to keep it.

"I'll need that in blood, mate," Nox said, capturing the Big Man's attention again. He'd produced a contract, and a quill. How antiquated. The Big Man rose to his feet and walked to his desk. Nox followed him and handed him the quill. He took it in-hand and looked at its tip. It was sharp as a hypodermic needle. He pricked the back of his opposite hand, wetting it, and wrote his name beside the X on the piece of paper, as if signing away his soul.

_Who really needs a soul, anyway?_

"Right, then. I'll leave you with your new power. Maybe we'll meet again. You have been quite cooperative, after all," Nox said. The Big Man waved him away, and he left. Once the door closed, Sorcerymon melted back into living color.

"Jean, what is that thing?" he asked. "Is it really worth giving them access like that?"

The Big Man smiled, "this is our way to the top, Sorcerymon. The world's at our fingertips."


End file.
